


Rivulets

by ospreyx



Category: RWBY
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Blood and Injury, Drabble Collection, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Major Character Injury, Psychological Trauma, Whumptober 2020, background bumbleby and renora, fair game from ch 17 onwards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:29:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 12,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26747383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ospreyx/pseuds/ospreyx
Summary: Qrow's last mission is to get all eight of his surrogate children to Atlas alive. It is only another misfortune out of many thataliveis not synonymous withwhole.Neither Sanus nor Solitas will be their gravestone, but they will not arrive to Atlas unscathed, either.
Relationships: Qrow Branwen & Everyone, Qrow Branwen & Oscar Pine, Qrow Branwen & Team RNJR, Qrow Branwen & Team RWBY, Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi
Comments: 197
Kudos: 88
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	1. hanging

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is a series of drabbles in chronological order for all 31 days of whumptober. we will follow qrow & his kids from post battle of haven to pre-armageddon in atlas. there will be some background pairings and eventual foreground fair game, but overall, this is not really a shippy fic. 
> 
> the tags are general warnings that apply for most of these prompts, but relevant warnings will be added in the author's notes wherever they are needed. prompts will be in the chapter titles.
> 
> ♡ 31 days of qrow & his kids having a bad time, in stark contrast to 31 days of healing & moving on he goes through in my [qrowtober drabblefic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26747521/chapters/65253346) ♡

Ruby needs a new cloak.

It is a tentative topic, but at the end of the day, it is up to Qrow to offer her a new one. It is his fault that her current one is ruined.

She wears it for the hood, wrapped tight to keep her hidden, as if the world will not see her if she cannot see it. Just the hood, while what is left of the fabric hangs limply around her shoulders, torn jaggedly where Harbinger had sliced through.

Qrow tries not to feel guilty.

He can tell that Ruby does not blame him, at least.

She glances up to him. Her skin is pallid, washed in the mellow glow of the fire next to her, but it does not mask the purple around her slender neck. She is no longer hiding, and there is starlight above to highlight purple mottled black, the dance of the fire to make it stretch and envelop her throat.

He has apologized. This is another apology, as well, held out to her carefully. She understands. The Griffon who caught her hood is dead, and the rest of the fabric is tucked away out of sight, but it is not moving on that they do.

It is healing, Qrow thinks, watching as he throat twinges and her eyes grow glassy. It is healing, the undeniable relief that rushes like sand through a sieve, the tinge of red that laps over her throat to slowly mask the damage before daybreak.

She takes the new cloak from him, brings it up to her face, lets out a breath that rattles fiercer than sparks that flare, skitter, threaten to bring the world crashing down in a fit of ashes. He does not blame her, because he remembers his first time. He remembers avoiding the hood afterwards, fastening clips that may easily break off if need be, bickering with Summer about hers.

Summer never understood, never learned the hard way.

He wishes Ruby hadn’t, either.

“Thanks, Uncle Qrow,” she rasps, hardly more than a whisper, breathed out against the fabric.


	2. kidnapped

The battlefield is hectic, as always. His kids are not prepared, as always. But they make it through, and they do well, and for a moment, Qrow can breathe.

Except there are eight kids and only one of him, and he loses track of one.

But that happens often. Oscar melts away like the shadows that melt across the grass, an unspoken presence that no one acknowledges, and for the most part, he is safe. He is hidden.

Or at least, Qrow assumes he is hidden up until he is not.

First, it is the ungodly shriek he hears from the Grimm. Then, it is the cry that follows, some garbled mix of panic and pain, drowning out the clatter of the cane. Talons curve, squeeze, _grip_ ; they tear, they puncture, and red drips alongside the cane, splots it crimson, smears over the grass.

He is taken higher. Higher, until Ruby cannot reach him. Higher, until Qrow must pursue him with hollow bones and sleek black feathers.


	3. alt 12 - water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: drowning

There are flames that burst with the first lungful, igniting in his sinuses like a crack of lightning that splits down the length of tree bark. He does not see, does not feel, does not hear anything beyond the strangled cry that bleeds out into the depths.

He is both heavy and weightless, both floating and sinking, blood filled with too much adrenaline and too little oxygen and not enough time. It is in his ears, too far for him to grasp, to understand the distant plea of  _ Oscar, let me.  _ Somewhere above him, there is a faint splash, a whisper within the water, something that cuts through just as he loses his grasp on the silver lining he was grasping at.

There is cold. There is silence. There is bliss.

It is a void that swathes him until he is slammed back to the living. Lurches, retches, curls onto his side. The flames are back, ripping up the stem of his lungs, through his throat, dribbling past his lips.

The first few breaths rattle through his core. They seep into his blood, pound against his veins, and for a moment, he can only gasp, pant, breathe.

He does not register the hand that lingers on his shoulder before he is nudged to sit upright. It is then that he sees again, red through a sunlit sky, pink that shimmers brighter than anything in the abyss that he fell into.

“There you go.”

It takes a moment to register the crimson, thrown over Oscar’s shoulders and pooling around his waist. Above him, Qrow’s hair sticks to his forehead, shirt clings to his skin, chest heaving from something other than holding his breath. He then holds out his hand, rings glistening, head tilting back to gesture towards the rest of the flock.

“C’mon,” Qrow murmurs. Gentle. Quiet. A stillness to him like that after broken glass, cracked foundations, shaken thrones. “Before you get sick.”

A moment that stretches like an eternity passes before Oscar nods and takes Qrow’s hand.


	4. collapsed building

Jaune is lucky that he has the most Aura out of all of them.

His lips part, quiver, but he does not speak, does not make a sound, does not dare to do more than gasp. They are shallow like the dust that settles, the resounding gunfire not too far off, the ashes that seethe and float before they dissipate entirely.

Qrow does not try to move any of the splintered concrete that traps him, not when it is precariously balanced and ready to shatter further at any moment. He has to stop Yang before she throws off the largest slab and sends the rest of the structure falling down. The girls bicker, and Ruby glances worriedly between them, and all the while, Jaune tries not to move. Tries not to speak. Tries not to breathe in too much air thick with ashes and drywall.

At the very least, they are not out of time. Not while they dismantle the pieces bit by bit, gradually so that the blood may not rush too quickly and the Aura may have time to heal what has been bruised, crushed, shattered.

Jaune’s brow is furrowed, but he does not make a sound. Maybe he is trying to look brave, do his part, play it well. Maybe he simply can’t get a deep enough breath to.

But he tries. Soon, he tries, and it is weak, small, pitiful. Qrow shakes his head and tells him, “Let’s get you out of here first.”

A tendon in Jaune’s neck twinges. His brow furrows further. Qrow can only help him brace for the removal of the heaviest weight of them all and hope that his Aura is enough to mend him before he breaks. 


	5. rescue

Ice erupts outwards, glittering against the sunlight, solid and whole despite the scuffle of claws against it. It shakes, cracks, off-white splinters over the expanse of light blue that matches that of her heels.

She quakes, takes a step backwards, trips over her own two feet. Her Aura flickers, bursts, takes the energy she has left with it. The ground meets her, embraces her, keeps her there while the world spins and churns in her head. There is not enough oxygen, not when there is ice that shudders and ashes that float high into the air and Dust that is rapidly dwindling in the chamber of her weapon.

The very iron in her veins weighs heavy, tethering her to the dirt like the gravity between Remnant and its shattered moon; she stays still, very still, wonders when the atmosphere became wire-tight, wonders when her blood became sedimentary and her limbs stopped responding.

Ice cracks further, trembles, a piercing cry that thunders in her ears. Soon, it shatters. Red peers through in pairs, claws scrabble against ice until they are obscured in powdery white.

Weiss is jerked sideways as someone barrels into her, but the force of the impact registers separately to her, and she wonders once more if she will ever feel whole and strong again. She hears Ruby’s voice in her ear, words falling through like silks between her fingers, too quick and too soft for her to grasp before it is gone. Over her shoulder, she sees the wall shatter; just before it stands a lithe figure, drenched in red, tall and hauntingly still, a predator who waits for the right moment to strike.

Just before she is swathed in rose petals, she sees the way Harbinger clicks, shifts, curves into something lethally beautiful.


	6. "get it out"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: one (1) stab wound

Qrow’s hands are the steadiest of them all.

Large, calloused, and so very, very steady.

That is all there is - calm, steady, very steady, poised still and perfect while ashes float into the air.

Yellow eyes stare up at him, glassy and unblinking. They are bright, that is good; they are bright, and his hands are steady, and the gleam in them is not dimming just yet.

Yang fires off a few more bullets from her gauntlet before she returns her attention to Qrow’s hands. The ground quakes, echoing not too far off by the strike of Nora’s hammer that splinters the ground like a thunderclap. Qrow does not dare move just yet, even with Blake’s trembling fingers around his wrist, her nails scrabbling weakly against his skin.

Blake’s other hand white-knuckles Yang’s, never once letting go, squeezing tighter as Yang presses her lips against the backs of her fingers. Blake's lip quivers, but the action is calming enough, her voice blessedly steady as she carefully breathes, “Get it out.”

Her voice is almost imperceptible over the frantic shuffling of clawed feet against the ground nearby, but he does not need to hear her to understand. He can feel the urgency hammering against his fingertips.

Another squelch rips deep to the bone, severing cartilage, muscle, capillaries; Blake whimpers, eyes water, but they are bright, so bright, yellow and bright and still on Qrow; Yang squeezes tighter, does not flinch as Jaune jumps in on time to behead the Beowolf that approaches.

It is too much. Too much commotion, too much of a distraction. Blake turns her head towards Jaune. Her chest rattles with another sharp breath, and she makes a tremulous noise. Qrow halts.

“Get it out,” Blake whimpers again with a renewed urgency, and it is too frantic, too precarious, too lethal.

“Is she -?”

“Don’t,” Qrow snaps. One hand presses flat against Blake’s chest, holding her down, holding her steady. “Don’t move. None of you.”

Yang blinks several times. Blake’s eyes are starting to dim. Jaune settles very carefully at her side, his hands held ready, but they tremble. They are not steady. They are not helping. Not yet, not now.

Qrow does not hear the Remnant-shattering strikes from Nora’s hammer or the whisper of Ruby’s scythe through each rapidly approaching Beowolf. He only hears Blake’s next whimper, the squelch of flesh, the trickle of blood as he resumes extracting the splintered shard of wood that tore just beneath her sternum.

It is deep. And it is angled. If he tries hard enough, he can feel the frantic pound of her heart against its jagged edge. Not impaled, but not free of it, either. If he tries hard enough, he can yank it out without tearing the lining of her heart with it.

But that is why Jaune is there, that is why he is ready. Trembling, squeezing his eyes shut, but ready. Ready when she is. Ready when Qrow is.

Ready when Qrow takes a slow breath. Holds steady, so steady.

The last few inches are torn out of her, and she cries, and Yang quakes, and Jaune flinches, and Qrow remains steady.

His hands are steady as Jaune mends her.

His breaths are steady as he rises to his feet and unsheathes Harbinger.


	7. carrying

There is ringing in his ears, louder than the muffled voice above him, the pounding of something strong beneath his head.

Too bright, far too bright, a sky too clear and too bright and too painful for him to blink through anymore. He turns his head, bumps his nose against something firm, winces at the knife-jab inside his skull. The voice says something again, and fingers squeeze beneath his legs, around his shoulder.

His skull hammers, spine rattles, brain throbs like a fire that pulses and smoulders before it finally dies. He grasps blindly. Fingers settle around one bicep, and then the other, and he squeezes, wonders who it is who carries him off, wonders where Harbinger might be. 

He glances upwards. Hair golden in starlight, burning brighter than the sun itself; eyes a heavier blue than ocean sinks and deep water channels, and weakly, Qrow slurs, “Tai?”

But it is not, he realizes gradually, it is not, but he wishes it was. Wishes it was Taiyang glancing down at him, Taiyang who carries him off, Taiyang who murmurs something back. It sounds like an apology. It sounds like a curse. Qrow does not know which one it is.


	8. isolation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> obligatory cw for qrow's moping & drinking

Qrow does not know where he left the kids.

There are only blinding lights above, dancing in his peripherals, staring luridly at him until they muddle and burn and dig starlight into his retinas. He shifts, turns over, and something digs into his side, hard and unforgiving and burning just as the stars do.

Glass clinks but does not shatter, trembles but does not break, rolls from his fingers. The scrape of it against the ground is loud, jarring, and he reaches until it hurts. Fingers wrapped around its neck. Hard, cold, ice held to skin until it burns, aches, scars.

He squeezes. Lifts the bottle and burns his throat anew.

He wonders where the kids are. Wonders where he left them. _ The girls still need you, _ he thinks he can hear a voice say, a voice so viscerally familiar, a voice rough and angry and seething fiercer than the bile in his sinuses.

They need him.

(But they do not.)

They need him like he needs the bottle. They need security. They need comfort.

(But he is neither of those things.)

He makes an odd noise into his drink. It might have been a laugh. It might have been a sob. He does not know anymore.


	9. alt 14 - shot

It takes one stray bullet to splinter Qrow’s Aura.

It takes another to completely shatter it.

It is the third that has him stumbling, gritting his teeth.

It sets in gradually, melting like narcotics left to drip and curdle, sunlight over his skin that mottles and burns. One hand is tight on Harbinger’s hilt, pierced through the ground, keeping him upright. The other presses to his side, wet and sticky and crimson when he pulls it away.

Ren’s mouth opens, wavers, clicks shut once more. He trembles, reaches for Qrow, halts. It would have been him, _should_ have been him, but Qrow is skilled in the art of taking blows that were not meant for him.

Qrow crumbles to his knees. Gasps for air that will not come, breathes in an atmosphere with too little oxygen and too many ashes and not enough time. Or perhaps there is time, all the time in the world, time that slows to a crawl with the white noise that jumbles from his abdomen and rattles through his spine.

There is enough time to patch himself back together when Ren settles by his side, tries not to focus on the growing splotch of red across his shirt, and keeps the remaining Grimm from glancing their way.


	10. trail of blood

There are ashes that hang heavy, snarls that ring loud, scuffling footsteps that never seem to end.

They were not expecting a horde, but it was there, leering at them from every corner until they reached the heart of the nest.

They were not prepared for this. Then again, Qrow is never prepared for anything, but he has years of experience to make up for it. He has a lifetime of fighting. He has a will to survive that trumps even the greatest beasts he has encountered. He has everything he needs to get out of every situation alive and well.

The kids do not.

Ren and Nora are inseparable. Not two halves of one whole, but two halves melded to fit after years spent fighting together. At the core, at the heart of it all, there is love. Undying love, the kind of love that has Ren always lingering just behind her, the unspoken love that has him moving before he can think.

That is not the problem, though. Moving before one can think is never the problem. The problem is that Qrow is not fast enough.

Qrow is not fast enough to prevent the Grimm from barreling into Ren when he shoves Nora out of the way. Qrow is not faster than the maw that clamps down over Ren’s bicep. There is an earth-shattering silence, then a squelch that rings louder than thunder, a wretched noise that follows that Qrow has never heard before.

It is a shame that the most he will ever hear out of Ren has to be that.

One of his blades, the one that was clutched in the mangled arm, is left behind. The other repeatedly slams against a skull too thick to pierce. Nora chases after them, but she is too slow, and there are too many Grimm left behind to cut through. Her eyes glisten too brightly, skies to soar through, thunderstorms to get lost in.

The Grimm are fast, but soon, Qrow is faster. He always is when his bones are hollow and his eyes are keen enough to follow the trail of crimson left behind.


	11. crying

The night is silent.

That is never a good thing.

But at the very least, there is the crackle of the fire there to keep her sane. She stares out into the unmoving void of the surrounding forest, Crescent Rose held ready in her lap, but it is not necessary.

For a long time, there is nothing. There is only the cosmos above, breathing light down onto the clearing in spotty patches through the canopy. There is only the fire, growing dimmer as time passes, its flames licking the remains of the wood. There is only silence after it dies, blissful silence, deafening silence, silence enough to rattle in her head, silence like white noise driving her to near screaming.

She might if it was not for the slow, heavy breaths next to her.

For the dozenth time that night, she glances at Qrow. At the glint of the flask in one hand, the flutter of his eyelids, the steady rise and fall of his chest. Harbinger by his side, a comfort, an omen, unsheathed and ready for him to grab the second he wakes.

But at the very least, he is asleep.

He is asleep, and his arm rests over his side, and she can still see the bandages.

Bandages wrapped tight, tight enough to squeeze whatever life was left in him, tight enough to bring his diaphragm collapsing in on itself. They are gone now, long since discarded when the skin they covered has stopped weeping, but she still knows what lies beneath.

She has seen the mottled bandages after they were removed. She has seen the surgical drains, puncturing beneath skin and curving out of sight over his abdomen. Bulging under muscle, digging through flesh, pumping him clean of whatever it was that curdled in his body.

There is ice in her bones, chilling her to her core, running sharply through her veins, but the forest remains still and silent.

She was like that back then, as well. Hands trembling, breaths rattling through her, shoulders quaking whenever Qrow would cough purple into his knuckles. Blood sinking heavy through each thread, purple tinting it black, some odd mixture of venom and pus alike foaming at its puffy edges.

She blinks. Qrow refocuses. His chest still rises. Heart still beats. Breaths still fill the silence. Breaths, slow and steady, no longer thin and weak, no longer labored and painful. Breathing, still breathing, steady and slow and peaceful.

Peace, she thinks. Peace is nice. Peace is what he deserves. Peace is what he should know.

She curls in on herself. Qrow blurs again. The tears well, fall, sink into her leggings. The chill is back, deeper than before, settling in the chambers of her heart.

“What’s wrong, kiddo?”

His hand is in hers. His voice is gravelly, dragged through hell and back, wrought from sleepless nights and increasingly burdensome days. Her fingers tremble where they are pressed to his ribs, to the side that still aches. She does not remember reaching out, but that does not matter. What matters is that he is there. That he has healed. Solid, whole, no longer weeping, pussing, bleeding purple.

“C’mere,” Qrow murmurs. He lifts his arm, an invitation, a comfort. “It’s my turn, anyways.”

Ruby does as she is told. She huddles close, and her shoulders quake, and she listens to his heartbeat. Strong, unrelenting, loud under her ear, as steady as the night. It beats, beats, beats, hard and whole and _there_. 

She cries until she is lulled to sleep. One ear pressed to his chest, his arm slung over her shoulders, Harbinger ready in his hand.


	12. broken bones

Nora is one of the strongest amongst them.

She is steadfast. She is ready. She understands what needs to be done the moment it is needed, and she takes one look at Ren, squeezes his hand with a tremulous breath, and glances downwards.

Ruby is not frail, but at the moment, she seems like she is. She quakes terribly, and Qrow wonders if her bones are hollow, if she can feel the chill of the road against the tear in her leg that weeps out into the dirt. Aura sparks, skitters, laps over her leg like flames to a log, and he wishes it would not.

Nora meets his eye. She understands. She always understands.

They have waited long, but not too long. Qrow is the one who peels away the fabric, accidentally tugs on the shard of white that protrudes from the skin, somehow manages to keep himself from flinching when Ruby squeaks. She blinks, holds her breath, does not watch as Nora lets go of Ren’s hand and settles by her leg. 

She does not, but Qrow does.

Nora sets her jaw, and the rest of the flock stops breathing. Sets her hand above the bone and waits. Glances up at Qrow once more, and he nods.

He cradles Ruby’s head when she turns and buries her face into his arm. She shrieks once, then sobs, voice muffled into fabric, and Qrow wonders if it is her voice tearing him at the seams, if it is her tears that burn through his skin and curdles in his veins. 

Despite the knot in his throat, the brief sting in his eyes, the imperceptible tremble in his fingers, he tightens his grip to keep her from thrashing. Holds her tighter to keep her from squirming away. He steels himself, remains impassive, but her sobs ring like gunfire and his heart shudders like glass alongside them.

Ruby’s Aura floods back in to repair the damage. For now, Nora stands, and Ruby utters out a watery thanks, and the kids all heal slowly together.

Later, Qrow curls up alone with a few empty bottles and wonders why he can still hear her.


	13. breathe in, breathe out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: panic attacks & past physical abuse

Breaths shallow. Fast, shuddering. In her chest, filling her lungs, almost bursting against the ridges of her ribs, but it is not enough. There is both too much and too little atmosphere; too much to exist in, too little to breathe through. There is no oxygen in her blood, no comfort in her veins, nothing but ice and fire and fear tighter than the bone-shattering grip of death.

She breathes, or at least she tries to. Breathes in, breathes out, but her head still spins. Inhale, exhale, but her eyes still sting. Rough patches under her eyes, against her cheeks, harsh to the touch, sticky, clammy. She can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do much other than gasp and shake and breathe, _breathe, god damn it._

Inhale, exhale, she does, she really does. Tries and tries but fingers are there, crushing her throat, pinning her there, anger seething through every word, every pretty thing he’s ever said thrown out the window. 

She breathes. She _breathes_. It is not enough. It is never enough. Nothing is enough.

Her ears twitch. Perk upwards. Her shoulders shake. Her lungs hurt. She is not alone.

Eyes are on her now, but they are not leering. They are not blue fit to drown in, malice heavy enough to shatter her sternum, lecherous enough to steal what little oxygen there is left in her body. They are red, this time; red like the capillaries under her skin, the linings of her lungs, the ragged gasps she makes.

Red, so red, crimson in the low lighting of the fire, pink in the shine of the sun. They are red, not blue, and he sits far from her and does not touch her at all.

She curls further. Her chest aches. Her lungs feel like they are full to bursting, but she compresses herself as tight as she can go regardless. Anything to keep herself small. Anything to keep him from touching.

But he never touches. He never comes close. Not him, not red, not pink and soft and tired and understanding deeper than anyone else has ever shown.

“One time,” he says after he is sure she is listening, “Ruby’s mom convinced me to skip class with her.”

Her shoulders quake. There is still blue, so blue that it hurts, blue like channels too deprived of oxygen to function anymore. But she looks at him, and there is not any blue, and there are not any traces of anger on his face, his voice, his eyes. 

“Summer did that a lot, actually. But this time, it was because she found a little hatchling just outside our dorm.”

Red. She thinks of red. Red like Ruby’s skirt, like Crescent Rose, like the earrings she wears. Red like Qrow’s cape, like Harbinger, like the gaze he sets on her. Roses, she thinks, rose-tinted, petals that bloom, gentler than she has ever been given before.

“She thought I’d know what to do.” He snorts. Rough, mirthful. He does not sound angry. She is happy that he is not angry at her. “And I hate that she was right.”

He snorts again. Softer this time, hardly there. Softer than ever before. His voice is gravelly, dragged out for miles, low in his throat, but it is not like Adam’s. It is never anything like Adam’s. Never angry, never in her ear, never telling her pretty lies.

“We didn’t know what to name it, but Tai did. Convinced us it was the most _profound_ name in the world up until he got drunk enough to confess. You know what he named it?”

Blake uncurls a little. Takes a breath with enough oxygen in it to leave Remnant desolate afterwards. “What?”

Qrow smiles. He always smiles when he gets her to breathe again.

“Niao,” he says. Rolls his eyes, red eyes that are not blue and are not angry and are everything that Ruby and Yang said they were. “Which literally translates to _bird_ , that stupid idiot.”

Blake makes a soft noise, some hollow remains of a laugh, but genuine all the same.


	14. alt 7 - found family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: dissociation & starvation

The winter grows harsher the closer they get to Solitas.

There is nothing left to the land, nothing but snow and jagged treetops and creatures who cannot move any longer. Nevertheless, a crow follows the faint tracks among the snow, its head tilted just so, the gleam of its crimson eyes just barely visible amongst the branches.

When it finds its prey, it swoops in, talons outstretched, a raucous cry leaving its throat. There is red amongst the snow, as deep as its eyes, as deep as the cape of one of the children who approaches its kill. 

It is almost always her, one of eight children that it cares for, a cape so captivatingly red and earrings to match. They are not its children by blood, but it cares for them regardless. It settles on her shoulder, resists the urge to peck at her earrings, and rubs its little face against her cheek. It listens to her laugh before she swats it away.

After a while, she stops laughing.

The kills get less frequent the longer time goes on. The fires grow weaker and its children grow hungry.

It is hungry, as well; there is hunger that bites deeper than the cold, hunger that dampens the lustre of its feathers, hunger that fills its hollow bones to bursting. It aches, and it trembles, and it begins to shed its feathers one by one, but the kills do not stop.

The children are what matter the most, it thinks, this is a suffering worth enduring so the children will not go hungry for very long.

But they do, of course they do. This part of the world is unkind; the heart of winter has never been more bitter. It perches on branches far overhead, watches its children eat what they can, and occasionally picks at the carcasses that other, greater beasts have left behind.

Flying is becoming too laborious of a task to do. Its talons grow weaker. Its bones feel brittle, its wings feel an inch within shattering.

But that is okay, it thinks, that is okay. It will live. It has survived many winters before. This winter will be one of many. What matters is that its children are safe, strong, and whole. They all have each other, unrelated by blood but tethered by something deeper, and for a while, that is more than enough.

One morning, one of its children scoops it up from where it has been nestled in a backpack. It does not remember curling up there. It also does not remember where most of its feathers went.

There are a lot of things it does not remember anymore.

But it remembers its children; it remembers this swell in its little chest, the instinctual urge it feels to rub its face against the cheek of the child that brings it up to eye level.

Her eyes glisten, not gray but not white, the loveliest sight it has seen in a while. Her shoulders shake, and her lip trembles, and she must be very cold, it thinks. She must be hungry, she must be tired. It puffs up what is left of its feathers to soothe her. That is all it can do when its bones are too brittle to move anymore.

The quaking does not stop. It only worsens.

“Uncle Qrow,” she says with a broken sob, “please. It’s been weeks.”

Weeks. 

That’s very odd, it thinks; it has only been three sunsets since its last meal.


	15. magical healing

They are lucky they have Jaune with them.

Which is funny, really, the talk of luck when Qrow is around.

Jaune’s hands are never steady. Not like Qrow’s, not like Nora’s. They tremble where they lay, palms smeared red, fingers pressed gingerly to discolored skin that rises, shudders, falls.

For the first time in a long while, Qrow does not see Ozpin. He sees Oscar.

He sees Oscar laying still, very still, what is left of his Aura sparking, glittering. It may have been too much, were it not for Ozpin there to keep him together; it may not have been enough, were it not for Jaune there to help his punctured lung knit and his shattered ribs to shift back into place. 

Oscar’s brows furrow, chest shudders, and he makes another shaky noise, another whimper, another whine. His eyes glisten when they turn to Qrow, and he cannot help but wonder if it is Ozpin keeping the tears from welling, his chest from expanding too far, his body from moving. 

Qrow is reminded that Ozpin is gone when those eyes glance away as quickly as they dare. 

There is tension that remains, the black eye long since healed but still fresh in Qrow’s memory, and belatedly, he realizes that he should have apologized earlier. He should have apologized before a Grimm encounter went wrong. He should have apologized before that tension strung itself tight enough to tether them apart. He should have, but he did not, and he was not there for Oscar when he should have been. 

It is not the first time he wishes he could have taken the damage instead. He would apologize now if he could; he would apologize now if it didn’t feel like some half-assed attempt to fix what has been shattered.


	16. alt 10 - nightmare

They start mild.

It is a gradual thing, rising in heat like water that comes to a boil, swathing him in scalding pressure that he does not know how to claw himself out of. There is red amongst the abyss, red that flits just out of reach, a red beneath his skin, against his lungs. He feels it there, in every pull of oxygen, every push of blood, a beat that flutters in time with the cloak.

There is red, that is all he knows. There is red, soon breathing out into white; there is red, melting across pavement just as the silhouette of a sunset melts across the horizon. There is red, glossy on his skin before he realizes what is happening. Red, mottled burgundy within fabric.

He breathes but it is not enough. Breathes and gasps but there is only red, around his throat, against his tongue, red that is too deep, too bright, too much.

 _Qrow,_ he thinks he hears within the red, muted from where it frays his shirt and sticks to his skin and drips from between his fingers, _please, Uncle Qrow._

His eyes snap open with a ragged gasp, and he is lost in an unfamiliar abyss with unfamiliar silhouettes and the unfamiliar tick, tick, tick of something by his side. His hand hits something hard, clean, metal, and he fumbles, quakes, breathes.

The light comes on, clear-cut and instantaneous and nothing like the two years worth of campfires and moonlight that have kept him company. The window is clear, the room frigid, the ache in his bones all the more apparent now that he gasps and trembles and reaches clumsily for Harbinger from where it is propped against the nightstand.

He sits against the headboard and runs his fingers along the mattress; stiff, military-issue, so impeccable that it can be nothing other than Atlesian make. He knows where he is. Knows where his kids are. 

But they are not _here,_ and the room is unnervingly empty, and the lights are too bright, and breathing does not come easier anytime soon.


	17. alt 4 - stitches

Skin does not knit as smoothly as fabric does.

The crescent sears against his bicep, curved over to his shoulder, delving low towards his elbow. It will mend, of course; as all things do, it will repair itself with time, if not with the remains of Aura that skitter along its jagged-mouthed length.

It is the needle and thread that whittles what is left of his Aura. One knot turns into five, then twenty, until he loses count with all of the weaving, tugging, burning. Knot after knot, hole after hole, thread melding with flesh until it is dyed crimson. The valley strains, narrows, hides the yellow-tinged tissue beneath, the murky strings of muscle that still cling to bone. 

There is the calm that settles like that of the silence that follows closely behind a storm, a tranquility that blankets them as they inspect the damage. Nora watches as if she cannot look away, as if it is a trainwreck that she can’t help but gawk at. She flinches when Qrow grunts, soft in his throat but thundering in the silence. She wavers, purses her lips, grabs Magnhild with a white-knuckled grip and makes her way over to Ren.

Qrow does not blame her, and he can tell she is trying not to blame herself, either. It is not her fault, her luck, that the Sabyr caught him instead of her.

“You care a lot for them,” Clover says lightly, conversationally, as if his fingertips do not smear pink against Qrow’s pallid skin.

Qrow glances at him. Watches as he works, slowly, methodically, pushing and tugging and knotting and patching him back together while his Aura cannot. He is diligent, and that is one of the first things Qrow notices about his new partner. He is steadfast, he is dignified, he is impeccable.

But there is nothing impeccable to the slight furrow in Clover’s brow, the wound that glistens like sunlight that melts amongst seafoam, the faintest frown that tugs at his lips. There is nothing impeccable in Clover when it is just them, and vaguely, distantly, Qrow feels the way his pulse shudders at his wrists, hammers at his thumbs, sparks down to his extremities. 

“Someone has to,” Qrow rasps.

Clover pauses. Pins him with a mildly calculating look.

He then resumes. Pinch, tug, thread, weave. Smears red bright like starlight, like the silken bases of rose petals far past blooming, like the rush of blood Qrow can feel when Clover’s knee brushes against his own. Then, all too soon, too quickly and too slowly, too casually and too heavily, Clover ties the final knot and pulls away.

For now, it will be enough to hold him together until they return and have access to proper medical care. For now, he may lean back and close his eyes and breathe through the echoes of pinpricks beneath his skin.

For now, he may listen to the quiet words that Clover directs towards Nora and take solace in the small laugh she makes.


	18. paranoia

Qrow tries not to fret.

He tries as best as he can, but it never is enough.

He cannot help it, not when he has scrubbed at his clothes until his fingers were raw to remove the bloodstains sure to fester if he left them in any longer. He cannot help it when he has patched them all together more times than he can keep count. He cannot help but perch on his windowsill and think, as unrelenting as the ticking of the clock behind him.

Then, he pushes himself out.

It is a rush like no other - oxygen in his veins that bursts to life, weightless for the short moments that it takes before he finally spreads his wings.

None of his kids see the crow that never lingers very far from them on their nights out in Mantle. He stays hidden, for the most part, watching, waiting. Watching for what, he does not know. Waiting for what, he does not want to know. All he knows is the knee-jerk reaction to follow, to watch, to _protect_.

No amount of successful nights out at clubs or theaters do anything to alleviate the fear that gnaws at him. Nothing quells the odd thing that claws up from his lungs and onto his tongue and has him biting back every concern that he aches to voice. They are grown, they are strong, they are far from incapable.

But it takes one look at them, one look out of years of keeping them from falling apart, for him to perch on his windowsill. On weekends, on rare evenings in between. He watches, and he waits, and he returns home bored but thankful nothing happened.

It is not healing that comes with Atlas. He is not sure what healing means, not when his flask is gone and his windowsill is open.

“They’ll be okay,” Clover says during one of their many patrols together. He notices the way Qrow watches. He notices many things. “They’ll be okay,” he eventually tells Qrow again, as if the second time will make it any more believable than the first.

“Yeah,” Qrow sheepishly responds. Those lovely eyes regard him with something far too nuanced for him to understand. He turns away before he can drown in them. “I know.”

But knowing they are strong does not mean he knows that they are safe. Knowing they can fight back does not mean he knows that they will win. Knowing where they are does not mean he is there, and who knows what would have happened if he was never there.

He refuses to think about it.

Clover nudges him. The touch rings like static, thrums beneath his skin like electricity waiting to flare. Clover’s smile is soft, _genuine_ , meeting the fond light in his eye as he teases on his way past, “Do you?”

Qrow refuses to think about that, as well.


	19. mourning a loved one

At first, Qrow does not recognize it.

He does not recognize the way he loses all sense of time, fading off into far-away lands while his heart tethers him to the card games they play long into the night. He does not recognize the inevitabile force that draws his eyes back to Clover, always to Clover. He does not recognize what it is that has his heart clawing up his throat and onto his tongue to laugh when Clover does, to smile when Clover does, to be happy when Clover is.

Soon, he mourns, because he realizes what this is.

Because faintly, vaguely, he thinks of off-white eyes and gentle smiles and early spring promises, and he _aches._

He aches, because for the first time in decades, he thinks of her and mourns in a different way. He thinks of her and how she might have smiled, how she might have looked between him and Clover and hummed, “That’s what I kept talking to you about.”

She is gone, and for a long while, she took his heart with him. It has been broken, beaten, _lost_ , but finally, he has found where it ran off to. No longer in his chest, in his throat, but pouring out between them, filling the too-empty space with all of the wonders he never thought he would feel again.

He watches until it aches.

Until Clover glances over, smiles, and alleviates that ache.


	20. alt 13 - accidents

Qrow is good at taking things apart. He is good at breaking what has been built, shattering what has been moulded, ruining what he has going for him. 

He is not good at piecing things back together.

But he must, he knows, he must keep skin from unraveling, veins from unfurling, bones from crumbling. He must keep Ren together, skin mottled black and oozing red from its singed pores. He must do this, he tells himself, he must pick the cloth before it festers, must peel it free despite the skin that comes off with it.

Ren jerks, hisses, bites his lip, does not whine. His eyes are bleary, unfocused, but he is still awake, still conscious, still alive. He is there listening - or maybe he is not, maybe he cannot, maybe his ears still ring, his teeth still rattle, his blood still hammers - as Clover speaks.

His voice is smooth where Ren’s skin is not, calm where Ren’s breathing is not. He is gentle, words soft rather than grating, a spark but not a command. He glances up at Qrow, and Qrow does not flinch away despite wanting to. It is no secret what caused the explosion, the thunderclap through the narrow cave system, the lightning-crack that sent Ren plummeting.

But when Clover glances at him, it is not accusatory. His brow furrows, but not from anger, nothing white-hot or confrontational; he is gentle, so gentle, just as he always is, as if he knows that what Qrow has placed in the palms of his hands is a breath away from shattering.

Clover says with what might be the ghost of a reassuring smile, “It’s okay.”

It’s not, Qrow wants to say, it’s _not_. 

There is nothing okay with a blight left to run wild, an omen left unaddressed, a wound left to fester. There is nothing okay with the fabric of Ren’s trousers that meld with skin and muscle, the precarious spark of Aura that has long since shattered, the long stretch of his legs that Qrow fears will never be pale or smooth or whole again.

But Clover is still there, still with him, still keeping Ren conscious, and it is enough for Qrow to say, “Yeah.” 

Clover brightens at that, stronger than sunlight, lovelier than moonlight. For a while, Qrow can believe it enough - and so can Ren, whose chest rises, falls, but does not shudder as precariously as it once did.


	21. hypothermia

The winds outside their transport rage onwards with no end in sight. There is a flurry of snow that mars the windows and tints the world white, too thick to see through, too heavy to pierce. Another gust rattles the transport, faintly, barely, but even so, it radiates to the hollows of Qrow’s bones.

He is more sensitive to the cold than others, and he hates that he is. He does not know when he lost himself to the whirlwind, the howling, the teeth that gnaw at his skin and tear into his core. He quakes, and he aches, and he rubs his hands together, kicks his legs, does what he can.

It is not enough.

He listens to Clover’s voice for as long as he can. He listens but does not filter the words, both because he does not care enough to listen to a mission report and because his teeth click too loudly. The machine at the steering wheel stares onwards, unmoving, uncaring, unseeing. It is hollow, it does not rattle, it does not breathe, it does not ache. 

Qrow wonders vaguely, briefly, his head heavy and his eyes burning, what it would be like to be wires and metal instead of flesh and blood.

“What -?” Clover gasps once he shuts his Scroll and finds where Qrow has been hiding beneath a heap of too-thin blankets. “ _Qrow._ ”

Qrow’s throat clenches. He thinks he responds. He does not remember.

He only glances out into the frigid calamity of the tundra, takes another breath tremulous enough to make himself tremble harder than he already is, and closes his eyes.


	22. drugged

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: roofies

Remnant slips gradually from its axis, tilting ever so slowly off to its left before it finally plummets. Weiss does not remember where the rest of her team is. She does not remember what it is like to have a world that spins evenly or a sky that does not ripple like the broken surface of a lake.

She does not remember a lot of things. She thinks she hears Ruby. She thinks she can still taste the drink she was nursing. She does not remember. She does not remember where the entrance is. She does not remember where in Mantle she is at anymore.

Or perhaps she does know. Maybe. She stumbles outside, but she doesn’t know how. She is alone, but she is not sure why. The ground is tilted, split down the middle; her heels are uneven and her clothes feel sticky; her skin is clammy, but she feels like she is burning, feels like her head is filled with liquid fire and her spine is hollow.

She slumps against one wall. Something flutters. Lands just behind her near her feet. Perhaps it is the wind, the soar of it as the planet veers off into the vast nothingness of the unknown.

Then there is a voice. Low, gravelly. She remembers it.

“Brothers,” Qrow says. Makes an odd sound. A sigh, maybe. A scowl. She does not know.

She wonders why he is there. Isn’t she still in Mantle? Were there any crows nearby? She doesn’t remember anymore.

She stumbles. He reaches out and tugs her into his arms. He is sturdy. He is an axis, finally. He is the point where the planet begins to revolve around, the thing that tethers the whirling cosmos back into place. Somewhere above her, he says, “All right, princess. Let’s get you and the others back home.”

Home. What an interesting thought.

Home - home is where the heart is, she reads sometimes, home is where everything feels right, home is where she can find respite. Respite, like Ruby’s arms, like Yang’s fingers through her hair, like Blake’s little snort at an offhand comment she makes. Respite like the books she reads and the directories she snoops through and the stories they all share late into the night.

Home is nice. She would like to go home. She wonders where the other three are. She wants to go home. She likes home because it is with them and not her father and she loves them so, so much.

Qrow makes a soft noise. Deep in his chest, low in his throat. She looks up. His lips are hitched upwards, barely there. She blinks. Keeps blinking. It is still there.

Everything spins. Everything muddles. She is floating amongst stardust, within oceans deep, against clouds heavier than gravity. Something pounds, hot in her jugular, loud in her ears. She thinks she hears something.

It is soft. Soft, so soft. Soft like the ground, swathing her with each dragged footstep, threatening to swallow her whole. Soft like the fabric that wraps around her, soft like the scent of sandalwood within it, soft like the embrace she is pulled into.

She likes soft things, she decides.

“I bet,” he says. She wonders why.

He laughs a little. In his chest. Against her ear. He laughs. She likes it when he laughs. She likes it when they all laugh. She likes laughter. Laughing means everything is okay. Laughing means they’re happy.

Happy. She likes that, too.

Likes when they are all together. Laughing together. Laughing at the stories Qrow and Clover tell them, stifling their giggles as they snoop through the library, screeching in delight when one of them wins a close game. She likes when they are happy. They deserve to be happy.

She wishes they would all be happy forever.

Qrow’s arm tightens around her shoulders. He laughs again. Softer than before, softer than she’s ever heard.

She thinks she hears the others. She thinks she hears Ruby, in her ear now, endlessly concerned, almost on the verge of tears. Qrow shushes her. Yang complains about something, and in turn, Qrow sounds sheepish. 

All four of them are angry about a faceless culprit. Weiss is floating by then, lighter than the pink tinge of blood that dissipates into water, fainter than the breath that leaves her.

Then Yang’s arm wraps around her waist. Blake brushes her hair out of her eyes. Ruby sniffles and holds onto one of her trembling hands. Qrow doesn’t try to take his cape back from her shoulders.

They’re so sweet, she thinks. She wants them all to be happy forever.

She is happy, at least. Happy with the four of them there with her. Happy to be lulled to a blissful state of unconsciousness while the cosmos lurches and the world rattles and the ground refuses to meet the edges of her heels.


	23. sleep deprivation

There are many frequent inconveniences that follow Qrow that day. He knocks his wrist against Harbinger’s hilt, trips over his own two feet, accidentally bumps Jaune’s shoulder - they happen often, and at first glance, it may be blamed on the curse that follows him, the omen he is, the very foundation of who he is.

It may be, but he is not quite sure anymore. It may be misfortune, may be common occurrences, but he is separate from them.

The battle is a blur, just as they all are, but he is separate from it, as well. The pain is separate, the movements are separate, the slow blinks few and far in between create a slideshow for him to consider. He exists somewhere in the atmosphere, floating amongst the particles that scatter starlight to every visible stretch around him, lost somewhere in the reality of the tundra and its bite down to his bones. 

He exists, and he moves, and he does not know how. He does not smell the ashes that rise in the air and strangle him, does not feel the coughs that rattle his rib cage, does not process the hand that eventually claps over his shoulder. He is jerked once from the force of it, which is not very strong, because it is not meant to hurt. 

It is not meant to move him. It is meant to ground him. It is meant to tether him to Remnant when he feels like he is veering out of its orbit. It is a delicate thing, the squeeze and the breath it forces from him, the light caress of one thumb as it rubs idle circles.

It is then that he realizes that he has been slumped against the wall of one of their transports. The engine hums, and there is a stack of cards left untouched on a nearby crate, and in the front seat, he is vaguely aware of Jaune and Marrow’s chatter. He does not remember how he got there. He does not quite remember when the mission ended, either.

In the distance, curved over the horizon and far out of his reach, he hears Clover say, “You need to sleep.”

There are many things that Qrow likes about Clover, but that is not one of them.

“I’m fine,” Qrow grumbles.

But Clover knows better. He always does.

“It’s okay to rest,” Clover says, closer now, breaths ghosting over his skin. His hand drops lower and rests on the back of Qrow’s where it holds weakly onto Harbinger. “I’ll keep a look out for you.”

The feather-light press of lips to his temple is separate. The squeeze of Clover’s fingers in his own is separate. There is only an abyss now, one he succumbs to in an instant, a dreamless eternity that he is unable to resist forever.


	24. sensory deprivation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: claustrophobia and the inadvertent self harm it brings

Qrow does not like silence.

Silence is a perilous thing, surrounding him, curling in his chest, his lungs, his gut. He feels it swelling against the walls of his heart, straining and pushing, threatening to burst right out of him. It is dangerous, some feral thing, one that waits to pounce, looms in every corner, leers at him amidst the void.

He does not know where he is, only that it is small, and he is too large, and the silence is too thick, and the air is too heavy. He breathes but does not filter it, gasps but does not hear it, pushes but does not feel it.

There is pounding now, hammering in his ears, thudding louder than a storm that rages onwards. It is his heartbeat, he realizes, and it is sickening, it is harrowing, hearing his own heart, hearing the flow between each chamber, hearing the oxygen that swells in his lungs and empties out into his blood. 

He does not like silence, because silence brings the visceral reminder that he is alive, and he fears that he will start to pinpoint exactly when that life begins to dwindle.

He pushes, shoves. Bangs his fists, his feet, his head. Claws and bites and strains to hear something, _anything else_. But nothing moves, nothing rights itself, and still, his heart beats, shudders, hammers. His throat is raw, his head aches, his nails ooze and drip where they hang loose in their beds. 

He does not know when it got this way. All he knows is silence and the feral thing that lurks within it.


	25. alt 3 - comfort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: alcohol withdrawals

Some nights, Qrow cannot hold himself together.

He does not know when the sun set or when the snowfall started or when the quaking started to set in. He does not know when his skin grew so clammy or when the blankets became too heavy. Some nights, he falls into an unmoving void by the inevitable pull of something far more absolute than gravity. He is tugged along until he is too far to see through it, too deep to claw out of it.

And every time, Clover is there to comfort him.

Qrow wants. That is all he knows - that he wants, wants so badly, wants more than he has ever wanted anything before. He wants, and he quakes, and he _hurts_ , and every time, Clover is there to keep him from falling apart.

Clover is there, words muffled by the blood that hammers against the thin walls of his veins, threatening to burst right out of them. Clover is there, swathing him in a warmth that he does not know, holding his trembling hands so they do not reach for anything. 

Qrow breathes slowly, carefully, torturously - inhale, want, exhale, want, inhale, want, want, _want_ \- and Clover is there, breathing with him, murmuring out promises that he would believe in a heartbeat if he could do much more than want. Clover’s eyes shine in the moonlight, a shade too light to be seafoam, too dark to be white, a gleam that acts as a silver lining, a respite within the eye of a storm.

“Breathe,” Clover says, and Qrow does. He breathes, and he aches, and he wants anew, wants more than anything, wants so badly that it hurts. “Breathe,” Clover tells him again when he starts to slip, another urge, another reminder.

Breathing does not come easy for a long while, but eventually, it does. The quaking does not calm, and his skin is still clammy, but soon, he can breathe smoothly. Soon, he can pull himself back together just enough to keep himself from reaching, but Clover still does not let go of his hands for the remainder of the night. 


	26. concussion

Qrow does not realize that James’ window is not open until it is too late.

But in his defense, James was expecting him, so  _ why wouldn’t he leave the goddamn window open? _

For a moment, he is boneless, weightless, naught but ringing in his ears from the impact and wind beneath his wings as they jerk and fall still from the shock. He does not plummet, or maybe he does - he does not know, only that there is ringing, and there is white that splotches his vision, and for a moment, he is still. He does not breathe, does not think, does not do much more than exist.

Then, he is tall and lithe and whole again, hitting the concrete of Atlas Academy’s courtyard.

There is a crack that pierces through the ringing in his ears, wet and visceral, bone and Aura alike. He lets out an undignified noise, turns his head, wonders which way he is facing when there is nothing but a bright atmosphere above him and a lurching ground beneath him. He opens his eyes, sees nothing but blinding lights, red and white, the whirling cosmos.

He thinks he hears what might be voices, but his ears ring too loudly and his skull pounds too strongly with every breath he takes. Whatever energy was left is drained with his Aura when it shattered, sparking and skittering, falling dim and weak and still.

He blinks. Or tries to blink, but his eyelids glue themselves shut, and his body feels too heavy, and something pulses between his temples like a heartbeat. He continues to fall, directionless now, lost in some eternal void that he cannot open his eyes to see through any longer.


	27. power outage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one actually gets kind of sappy ! who would've known ?

When the lights first die out and swathe Atlas Academy in the frigid abyss of the night, Clover is not worried. Power outages are extremely rare, but they are not unheard of. He is ready, and so are its inhabitants, and for the most part, all is well for the short time it will take to get things back in order.

What he worries about is Qrow.

When Clover finally finds him, there is already a tremor in his hands, in his breaths, in his shoulders as he quakes down to the hollows of his bones. Qrow’s eyes are bleary where they stare longingly at him, dim despite the moonlight that tints them pink, never saying a word, never once begging or asking.

That is the first thing Clover learned, starting from the very night they met. He knows where the silence comes from, knows that it is wrought from the years of being someone else’s problem, from the decades of being the walking omen that his tribe must have cursed from the start.

Why anyone would curse someone so lovely, Clover does not know; why anyone would shove Qrow away and abandon him to the wolves, he will never know. There are many things Clover sees, and the whispers of omen or harbinger do not plague them.

What he sees is love, strong and brighter than the shattered moon itself when Qrow shivers, stumbles, stutters, and yet still makes it a priority to make sure his surrogate children are okay. What he sees is something deeper than duty or promises to undead beings, something soul-deep when he takes one lingering glance at his nieces and their friends before Clover whisks him away.

Qrow does not ask. Never for help, never for comfort, but he does not refuse it, either. He only takes what is given, basks in what he is allowed to. His fingers are stiff against Clover’s skin, his breaths shuddering where they wash over the crook of Clover’s neck, the tremble in his bones taking what feels like hours before it finally eases.

Warmth spreads over every stretch of skin Clover can reach like the patterned silhouettes that filter from a canopy far above. He is gentle, lighter than air, than sunlight, than the gradually steadying breaths that bleed out from Qrow’s lips. He trails over skin, mouths along valleys and ridges and skin left glossy with scar tissue.

Bursts of nebulae are breathed into life along pallid skin, colors that burn and unfurl like the petals of a flower in late spring bloom. Qrow sighs out against him, something like praise, like thanks, like a prayer - and Clover shushes him, trails higher, pulls him closer, moulds them into one.

One shared breath, one blessed coherency, one heartbeat beneath Clover’s roaming fingertips. He will not let Qrow go cold again. He refuses to let the chill settle deeply enough to nearly tear Qrow from the living world ever again.


	28. accidents II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one pushes the M rating, i think. viewer discretion advised :)))

Yang’s heartbeat is like that of the force that brings a storm raging onwards. Every frantic fill and empty of each chamber brings a thunderclap radiating through her veins, across her nerves, along muscle still clinging desperately to bone. For a while, she is nothing but a pulse, dripping fire across her skin, pouring life out onto asphalt.

She blinks, turns her head, sees nothing above her but red. Red in her eyes, in her hair, on her clothes - red trailing after her and her bike, a wet streak smeared across asphalt, ending only at the steady drip drip drip of blood from her exposed kneecap. 

She breathes, holds it, exhales, groans. Repeats the process, hopes it will bring relief, but the lightning splintering up from her knee and along the curve of her spine never ceases.

Some ways off, she hears the steady hum of the engine, still whirring, still living; in her chest, she hears her heart, listens to how it races, hisses and knocks her head back when it sends knife-jabs along every stretch of skin in her body. In her ears, still as bright as day, as jarring as life, she can hear the metallic screech of the bike scraping to a torturous stop across asphalt, of metal denting and breaking and crying out louder than she did.

It drowns her out. It still does, the engine, the murmur of it. Her heart also does, stronger than it has the right to be, a relentless beat beat beat as deep as her bones until she swears her knee has one, as well. Vaguely, perhaps in a dream, in the eternity between squeezing her eyes shut and waiting out the pounding ache that rises and then falls, she thinks she still hears the rumbling growl of the Sabyr that caught her.

With time only comes clarity. She wishes it wouldn’t, not when she turns her head, tries to reach out with one arm, finds that it is missing. Not when she reaches with the other, winces and cries out from the resulting sear of pain, looks down to see the glossy stretch of skin.

Not skin - muscle alone, streaked black, ragged enough to fall off were it not clinging so desperately to the bones and tendons beneath.

Wet, glistening, pouring over the asphalt, as well. She quakes despite the pain it brings, makes a wretched noise despite how her throat aches, breathes and gasps and wheezes despite the knife-jab each inhale brings.

There are footsteps, she recognizes, frantic, rapidly approaching. She does not care. It does not matter, not with so much red, not with the way her body weeps, her heart aches, her arm trembles as if it is on the verge of shattering. 

She closes her eyes, and finally, it starts to numb. The bones, the red, the flesh - burns and aches and seethes hotter than the blood in her teeth until it finally dulls.

Over the rush of blood, the crackle of Aura long since shattered, the tremor in her bones, she thinks she hears Qrow call out, “Yang!”

She tries to say his name, tries to respond, tries her hardest but it is not enough. Nothing is enough, not when she sees red, crimson in the low lighting, crimson in his eyes like that of the flesh left smeared across the road.


	29. emergency room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the aftermath of day 28, if you will

Qrow has never liked hospitals.

He has never liked the pearly white tiles and matching walls, the fluorescent lights bright enough to sear through his retinas, the constant murmur of the patient and the broken cushioning every minute of the evening. He does not like white, does not like the peace that it brings, a peace that many are not ready for just yet, a peace that is given whether he likes it or not.

He and Ruby are the only ones allowed inside so far. He does not go in yet, not even with Ruby’s watery glance at him, nothing in it but pain and and fear and a plead that he is not strong enough to answer yet.

Instead, he stays just outside, alone in a hallway too white and too pristine and too quiet. He is alone until he hears the footsteps approach, the way they falter, the pause before Clover says, “Hey.”

Qrow does not meet his eye, but he also does not resist the hand that nudges against his own. Clover’s fingers thread with his briefly, squeeze, hold on for as long as he needs it.

“You’ll regret not going in there,” Clover murmurs. “I know it’s not easy. But it’s not supposed to be.”

Nothing is easy, Qrow knows, nothing is; nothing is easy in patching his kids together, bringing them home, helping them when they cannot help themselves. But now he cannot help them, either, and it is not up to him to intervene where there is nothing more to be done.

Though he could have intervened. Earlier, when it was not too late. Earlier, when Yang was still conscious, still moving, still strong. He squeezes weakly, and Clover squeezes back, and hoarsely, he admits, “I wasn’t there.”

It feels like a confession, as if he is looking for something beyond comfort, something heavy like forgiveness. But Clover cannot grant that; he can only tell him, “But you can be now.”

Qrow knows he is right. He is often right. But for now, his legs refuse to move, and his lungs refuse to expand, and his eyes sting like hellfire, and he does not move.

He does not move for a long while, but Clover does not seem to mind. He is patient. He is strong. He is calm. He is what Qrow needs, holding him steady and keeping him whole until he is ready to enter Yang’s room.


	30. wound reveal

For the first time in a long while, Qrow does not know where all of his kids are.

Soon, the battle ends and he is searching for the two he lost track of. Soon, he is soaring above them, as high as his wings may carry him and as far as his eyes can pierce. Soon, he finds a flare of blonde hair that is matted and sticky, accompanied with the unmistakable glint of the sunlight against her prosthetic.

Qrow lands beside the thick spatters of red that lead to them. He steps tentatively through the hollow within the caved-in building that they have settled in. Yang does not glance at him when he approaches; she does not do much other than breathe, hold steady, and press down against Blake’s flank from where she is curled on her side.

Qrow sees the crimson that blots the tuft of fur that lines the jacket, and with it, the well of black amongst the fabric that only grows in size. Blake raises her head, her eyes trained on him, whited, glossy, but still so bright.

Yang’s shoulders do not quake, but her breaths do. Quick, short, coming out in bursts, but for the most part, she holds herself together just as she holds Blake together. She opens her mouth to respond, but she stops, wavers, sets her jaw instead. Blake allows her head to fall back against the concrete, exhausted beyond measure with a broken Aura and a wound Qrow has yet to see. 

“Kiddo - _Yang_.” Qrow sets one hand above hers, but he does not push, does not grab her, does not pay any mind to the wet splotch of pink that tints his fingertips. The other flits through all the necessary contacts and sends their location, and he reassures, “We’ll figure it out.”

It is not very long before support arrives, but in the moments that follow, in the quaking breaths in sticky air and the weight of a pressurized atmosphere bearing down upon them, it feels like a century. It feels like eons pass with a wound that still weeps and a jacket that grows limp and unsalvageable before Blake is whisked off.

Something breaks in a way that Aura does when he sees the jacket pull away from Blake’s skin. Something shatters upon impact when three jagged valleys are exposed to the fluorescent lights above them. Skin and fabric mingle, weep, become one until they are forced back apart to be cleansed; red clings in threads, cushioned by a yellow far too delicate to be exposed to the air, the faintest beginnings of white visible within.

Qrow does not watch as Blake is rushed into medical care. He swallows thickly around the blame that swells, because he could have been there, but he was not. He should have been, but he was not, and all he can do on the ride back is remain silent.


	31. left for dead

Miraculously enough, it was not the tusk that shattered through his Aura. It wrenched through bone, through flesh, through the tendrils within that made him whole, but his Aura still skittered to life to repair what it could.

What took the fragile thing that remained and shattered it like a hammer to glass was the foot that stamped over one of his legs before he could get back up.

There is only silence now.

There is no peace, not for Qrow. There is no rest, only silence, and he does not enjoy the silence.

He can hear the flutter of his heart again, not thundering as it was before, but barely perceptible beneath his skin, on his tongue, in his eyes where they glisten and grow bleary. He is separate from his body, empty and still; he is separate from a lot of things now, as if ice has been held long enough to burn and then numb the skin beneath it. 

The only thing there is now is the ash that floats far above him, the shudder of battle so distant that he cannot hear it over his weakening heartbeat. He lays in a sea of pulsing crimson, in matted fabric melded seamlessly with flesh, blending well enough with the rubble to keep himself hidden.

He does not know where the battle has strayed to, where it progressed towards, leaving him far behind. He does not know where Clover is. He does not know where his kids are.

All he knows is that they are safe. He made sure of that before they raced onwards, telling them he will catch up, promising them he will find them later. He has never been good at breaking promises, but he supposes there is a first for everything.

What matters is that they are safe. They are safe, he tells himself, again and again until he believes it enough; they have Clover, they have each other, and they are _safe._

He takes a ragged breath, rattles out a cough, froths red past his chin. Soon, his eyelids fall blissfully shut, and he listens to nothing but far-off warfire and a shuddering heartbeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading ♡
> 
> come say hello to me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/ospreyxxx) ✨


End file.
